At Alice’s Restaurant in Woodside, California, you cannot in fact get anything you want. You can’t get diet rootbeer or use a restroom. But if you smile at the waitress and ask nicely, the owner will have someone toast the gluten-free bread which you bring from the car.
There’s a Group W bench but no one waited to take my money for T-Shirts in the gas station where the bathrooms are, around the back.
After lunch (grapefruit juice, Portabello sandwich on my bread, cold sweet potato fries and unsalted house-made chips), I started down 84E towards Menlo Park. A mile away from the restaurant, I got stuck behind a landslide and suddenly my brain switched from Arlo to Stevie Nicks. I had a pleasant chat out my window with the road crew guy directing traffic at our end. Where you from, he asked. When I told him, he laughed. Not too many mud slides there, I bet, he guessed. Too right.
Traffic stopped again halfway down the mountain. I took a few pictures, then started through the green light, lifting my hand from the steering wheel Arkansas-style to thank the next red-flag holder. A few minutes later, I slipped into the city as the afternoon sun burned the last fog from the California sky.
My ears still popping from the trip via the pig-trail over the mountains, I tried to bite my tongue as the manager of Peet’s Coffee used me for a punching bag. I sat down with my Chai, reached out on Social Media to my friends, and watched as their sympathy came pouring through. I feel as though I probably complained, but sometimes, a girl has to let off a little steam. I’ve been nice all week and that’s running against type.
It’s the sixteenth day of the thirty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
